


Wayfarer

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Study, Death, F/M, Longing, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22676083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: It was the 3rd day of September 1939, when I eventually realized that I had been married to someone whose soul belonged to someone else.or,How William Schofield's wife saw his husband dispatched from reality.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield, William Schofield/Wife
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Wayfarer

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the end of the 1st World War. Un-betaed. We (still) die like a soldier.

When he came back to us, we were so happy.

God blessed our marriage with a caring, supporting man to lead this small family, and He trusted us for raising two beautiful babies. William, my husband, left when our daughters were six and seven years old. They grew up into fine young ladies who loved and adored their father; there were no days without chattering and laughter as they jokingly fought for William’s attention. It was 1918 when we were reunited with tears of joy, and the days after were so peaceful, I couldn’t ask for more. William was home, he was shot and bombarded, but he was alive. He had both hands and feet, healthy, smiled as if the war never happened – he hugged me, and I lost my perception of time. William was so warm, so tender, so fragile.

The aftermath of the First World War was ugly and not only the military learned it the hardest way possible. Old countries were abolished, kingdoms collapsed, a new power was born, and people gathered to form new boundaries. Great Britain suffered from severe inflation, the economy was badly infected, the citizens crippled both literally and figuratively. Food was hard to find, and the price was increasing everywhere – should I be grateful for having William around, that he always fought for me and our angels. I never really asked what he did amid the heated war, but he brought back medallions; he was declared as a war hero for his sacrifices and courageous actions. It gave us advantages since the military took good care of our family.

William turned into ‘someone I don’t know’ as months passed.

Of course, his touch was still pleasant and sincere, but no longer affectionate. He showered our daughter, who turned into early teenagers, with guidance and compassion, but half of his soul wasn’t there. One day, when I was awakened in the middle of the night, the other side of our bed was empty. William was supposed to be sleeping right next to me, so I got my robe and lantern, then silently walked to his working space. As I expected, I found him, hands folded on the table and he used them as a substitute for a pillow. I looked at him with my old, worried eyes. I stroked his wavy hair softly, prevented the strands from his eyelids; there, I found his tear ducts were wet. At first, I thought he was dealing with post-traumatic—

 _It was not._ On the desk made of timber, papers were scattered, some of them were crumpled, but didn’t discard into the trash bin. I was terrified, but also curious. I was fully aware that I was about to trespass my husband’s privacy, but – my instinct told me to read the unfinished letter. How shattered my heart was when I found a _woman’s_ name. I almost cried, but I recalled the innocent faces of our children, so I swallowed my negative thoughts and secretly read the letter on William’s grip. There, I learned about a man named Blake, who was, apparently, the son of Mrs. Blake, the lady who would receive this letter. I was burst into tears. I was wrong. I thought William was cheating on me, turned out he just lost a friend.

That was what I thought, but William was getting more and more aimless.

William kept on receiving letters and he smiled as he read the sentences. Every time he finished one, he gazed at the sky, his vision wandered as if he was reaching the infinite, _the impossible_. There were longing and yearning in his dark blue eyes, a state of nostalgia for an absent _something_ I knew he couldn’t get. I didn’t know how I comprehend his loneliness – perhaps, because we had been together for decades. But still, I found zero gaps to enter; William didn’t let me pass the border he built, and a part of me gradually dying every time I saw his desolation. One day, I dared myself to ask, _who was Thomas Blake,_ I said, which William replied with an answer, _he was my comrade_. It seemed simple, but I noticed his trembling lips.

To mention ‘Thomas Blake’ was a torment for William. He might never realize that his eyes were watery, and he stared way too long at the ceiling every time he spoke about him. His hand was shaking as he held the teacup and swallowed the bitterness; it hit me hard that I was forced to understand that I could do nothing to ease his pain. There was that day when William was summoned to the military base and I had a chance to tidy up his work desk. It was messy with maps, compass, and scribbles with encrypted notes. Then I saw another incomplete letter, addressed to Mrs. Blake. William’s handwriting was never this bad, this unstable – and I cried when I found traces of tears and smeared black ink on the bottom of the paper.

Christmas was followed by another Christmas.

My husband stayed late at the church after the mass. He lit two candles and his praying was way longer than usual. I knew he wasn’t pleading only for our family, as I saw a glimpse of a golden ring which belonged not to me. William never wore our wedding ring – he said that having such material circling his finger would do him harm in the battlefield. In case he was trapped in a fire, metal could burn his knuckle, and it troubled him when he had to pull the trigger. The ring was big; it was even bigger than William’s fingers. He said it was a memento from Joseph Blake. But I was no fool. William was a terrible liar and his eyes were more honest than his mouth. I stopped asking because I wasn’t sure if I could manage my own heart.

William used the ring as a pendant, attached to a necklace, hung together with his personal identification tags. The band was dirty, tainted by old, dried blood. Not only my husband brought it with him everywhere – he had this habit to pat his left chest, _where the ring was_ , every time he went to new places as if he was the eyes which saw the world for the owner of the ring. He murmured story after story; how the aftermath of the bloodshed changed the whole world. A wise man said, time healed, but William couldn’t be fixed, and the scar lingered. A fellow soldier from the same regiment told me that my husband once won a race against time. But a triumph required an expensive payment – so, I learned _more_ about Thomas Blake.

Years, decades, and William’s obsession with the war was incurable.

The military summoned him. It was once a month and gradually turned into once a day. My husband attended those meetings until late at night. Our daughters were already married, so I was left at home with the maids, but I couldn’t help but waiting for him for my intuition told me so. It was almost midnight when William finally entered our residence. I was half-sleeping in the living room, but I could see the spark in his eyes, the suppressed eagerness in his facial expression. William kneeled before me, reached my hand, squeezed it gently, as he repeatedly mumbled for my apology. The first leaf was falling when he told me that he had to go, _again_ , to fight on the frontline, for the Second World War was merely an inch away.

Lieutenant William Schofield, once again, put his life on the line. From station to station, from barrack to barrack, as he was in charge of the first wave two days after the German invaded Poland. A day before his deployment, the cherry trees he planted on the front yard shed their leaves, white petals fell to the dying grass. Skies turned gray and the sunlight dropped rapidly. William kissed my forehead before turning his back, showed me his tough, masculine side even though his vulnerability was vividly shown. I smiled as the distance between us grew wider and wider, until the point I couldn’t see my husband again. Suddenly, all the power I used to have betrayed me; I lost my balance and tears streamed down my exhausted face.

William marched alongside his troops as if he was embracing the war itself. It was the 3rd day of September 1939, when I eventually realized that I had been married to someone whose soul belonged to someone else.

‘Come back to us’, I wrote to him.

My husband was back, but never _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> way·far·er | \ ˈwā-ˌfer-ər \  
> : a traveler especially on foot


End file.
